Baghdad: The Final Gathering

by Ahmad Ardalan

  “Remember this?” Mr. Shadi asked.

  I nodded. “Of course. I used to love it here,” I said with a smile. “So sad what happened to it.”

  “Well, my father started this business in 1976. He did well, but when my brother and I took over after five years, it skyrocketed. Then the war happened. The embargo made it difficult for us to purchase the high-quality meat we needed, as well as the spices for our secret recipe, so we decided to close.” He stopped and looked around, and a nostalgic look wafted into his eyes. “Ah, I used to love coming here every day. I didn’t only lose this business, but I also lost my brother in the Gulf War,” he said with a sigh. “Such difficult times. We wanted out and managed to rent the place to a close friend of the family, but he rebranded the whole place. It never did well, and in no time, it was out of business again. It’s just been sitting here, rotting ever since.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said. “I’m sorry. It was such a wonderful place. I’m sorry about your brother too.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Omar, I felt something when I saw you sitting there in my wife’s waiting room today. I hear eagerness in your voice, a yearning for success. I’d venture to say I see a bit of my young, adventurous self in you. I still own this place with my sister and my late brother’s wife. I know they will trust my judgement and will not object to me passing it over to you. I will put in another $2,000 for capital, to help you get started, and we will be partners in this endeavor. Come back to me in one week to show me what you have, and do your best to convince me I’m right about you, that I’m making the right decision.”

  Still shocked when I arrived home, I said nothing to Farah about my unexpected meeting. I just carried Sarah around for some time, walking around in the garden. I needed motivation, and while our baby said nothing, she gave that to me.

  I met Mr. Shadi a week later. Within ten minutes, he was onboard, and an hour later, Mrs. Sameera issued the license. We were in business four months later.

  We named the place Kings and Queens, and the huge sign outside bore the image of illuminated chess pieces. Like a chess board, the inside was decorated in black and white. It took three months to redesign the whole place, and the end result was three halls.

  The main sliding door opened to a large ballroom, with black and white sparkling tiles. That room held four billiards tables, each with our logo carved in the center. The tables were illuminated with overhead lighting, perfect for playing. We placed a small canteen in the front corner, to sell snacks and drinks. The ballroom opened to two others.

  The SEGA Room was on the left, a state-of-the-art area with six consoles on white tables and eighteen fine black leather chairs. The walls were glass, allowing people from both rooms to see each other.

  The crown jewel of the place was the Pinball Room, to the right of the ballroom. No one could see inside it, as the glass was tinted. The doors were majestic, comprised of black and white squares and the handles fashioned out of king and queen chess pieces, a black king and a white queen. Anyone who stepped inside the Pinball Room was greeted with a world of lights in different colors. The room was completely dark, a blinking, flashing neon rainbow coming from the eight arcade game cabinets and the five pinball machines. The ceiling was adorned with tiny, sparkling lights, resembling stars, an ode to Mr. Boris’s room that I remembered from our childhood trespasses. Everyone who entered had to wear a glowing band, and visitors felt as if they had wandered into a spaceship.

  All the games operated by chips, and each chip cost 250 dinars. Most of the arcade games took one chip, with the exception of a car-racing game and a game everyone called Cowboy, which cost 750 dinars to play. Cowboy, a very popular game that was in operation for sixteen hours a day and was never ignored, followed the life of a sheriff and his pursuit of fugitives.

  The pinball machines were also a big hit. I purchased them from a trader in Jordan. Our arcade games were extremely popular, especially our NBA game, a game called Mafia, Superman, and, most of all, a wrestling game in which Hulk Hogan’s voice loudly proclaimed for winners, “Whatcha ya gonna do?” Those games were played from the minute the place opened till late in the night, at closing time, when we had to kick people out.

  Our hours of operation were from nine a.m. to midnight. I worked the first shift, and Mr. Shadi worked second, a schedule that suited both of our lifestyles. We also employed four others: one for the canteen and one for each of the gaming rooms. We made an average net profit of $3,700 monthly, more than triple the income of any minister in the Iraqi government. I paid Mr. Haider’s $2,000 loan back within three months. I spent a good amount of my profits on my home, and we also planned a good budget for maintenance and upgrades. All in all, Kings and Queens was a raging success for our all, and the community enjoyed our presence there. We wanted to remain at the top, and we did. It was of great help that all the spare parts and other things we needed were available in Shorja.

  One of my weekly rituals, ever since I turned 16, was to visit the busy and buzzing Shorja, the general marketplace of Baghdad. There, one can purchase anything imaginable, from the smallest screw to most complicated parts needed for any electronic device, household items, and everything needed for plumbing, gardening. Whatever is needed in life can be found there, from the best tiles to the cheapest clothes, carpets, and toys. In addition to that, there is a busy animal market on Friday, with all types of birds, lizards, snakes, dogs, cats, rabbits, and exotic creatures on display. Many go to Shorja to shop, but several visit just to see all the beautiful, rare creatures.

  When it comes to feasting, there is no better place to enjoy all types of food from various parts of Baghdad and Iraq, local cuisine at its finest. The kebabs can be smelled yards away. Bowls and bowls of Biryani are cooked, and Shawarma skewers fill the place, each over two meters high; it takes till sunset to finish such a skewer, a feast to say the least.

  I did not work on Fridays, as Mr. Shadi was scheduled for that day. Instead, I woke up early, dropped Sarah off at my parents place around ten a.m., then spent a few hours in Shorja. I returned home with a gift for my daughter and whatever I needed for work that week. I sometimes bought her rabbits or birds, which brought a smile to my little girl’s face, and that was what I lived for.

  Life was fine and moved along smoothly. After a few months, Mr. Shadi’s sister-in-law and sister wanted to sell their share. The two of us bought it, so we completely owned the place, each with a 50 percent share. Of course at that point, and with our business increasing, the responsibility became even more to bear. I began spending less and less time at home, and in the process of that, I missed more important signs of what was really going on. I made that discovery on a family trip to Malaysia, a turning point in Farah’s lifestyle and, in turn, in our home.

  ***

  We had only been in Malaysia for three days, but I’d really enjoyed learning about a place so very different than ours. It is a tropical place full of natural beauty, and their culture, food, and habits are very different from those of the Iraqi people’s. The Muslim faith is prevalent there, but the effect of Buddhism still lingers, as that was their religion centuries ago, before converting to Islam. Farah and I mingled with the locals, asked about their history, and talked about ours. Everything was lovely for a time.

  One day, though, when we were returning from dinner in the Chinese part of town, where many tourists go, we were approached by a woman carrying a small child. She was selling roses, trying to earn some extra money for her family. She caught us standing in front of the restaurant, looking at a map to determine our way back to the hotel. She spoke only a few words of English: “Rose, pretty madam?”

  My wife found her child very cute and started talking to the little one. I was about to pull a few dollars out of my pocket for her when the man who worked in the restaurant started to shout at the lady, ordering her to move. The woman said something in reply, and the man jumped on her like a manic and started hitting her, with no regard for the baby. The
woman fell to the ground, bleeding, and the child cried, not due to injury but simply out of fear. My wife and a bystander rushed to help the woman, and I quickly pushed the guy aside. The shouting continued, and the man screamed like hell. As Farah examined the woman, she saw that the woman had lost several teeth in the skirmish, and her mouth was bloodied. Unable to handle that, Farah began screaming and went absolutely hysterical. People and passersby quickly gathered around the scene, and an ambulance was called to escort the injured woman to the hospital.

  By the time we reached the hotel, Farah’s crying had stopped, and she was completely silent, an obvious sign of an emotional breakdown. She was so upset that we cut our trip short and headed home the next day. The incident seemed to haunt her, because she discussed it every day, with whomever would listen. I agreed that what happened to the woman and child was horrific, but my wife took it very personally. It was as if she felt it was her duty to spread awareness to the world about abuse and violence, and it became somewhat of an obsession.

  She soon began penning and sending letters to the United Nations, women’s rights offices, and other organizations. After a few months of communication, a representative from the United Nations met with Farah in Baghdad, at their local office, and they wanted to see her in Geneva. They saw something in her, as she was truly an icon for humanitarian causes. She wanted to help, to do something about the problem, and they admired that.

  The U.N. representatives were even more impressed when they met Farah in person. She shared their values, and it worked out well that she was located in Iraq. They trained her for several days, putting her to the test, and the result was rather amazing: They ultimately appointed her as a representative, basically an ambassador in Iraq. She was extremely happy, about it, and so was I, at least at first.

  Day by day, the effort seemed to consume her, and our home life began to suffer. It was very difficult to keep things under control at home, with a baby around, while we both worked. Our responsibilities continued to increase, and we did not provide Sarah with the attention she deserved and depended on. Our careers invaded our peaceful life, and not a week went by without arguments erupting between us. We continuously demanded more from each other, and we were foolishly neglecting and upsetting our little girl. As our success grew outside the home, things inside our home really began to fall apart.

  Chapter 6: Fatima

  Her two daughters start to quarrel at the lunch table about something, and she decides to take them to the other room. My eyes follow them while everyone else enjoys their desserts. My aunt, with the help of my brother’s wife, made quite a selection of sweets for this gathering, so no one can be blamed for being otherwise occupied, especially Essam, who seems to be gorging down one cake after another.

  From far away, I see Fatima struggling with the little ones. I quietly stand and go to the living room. “What’s the problem here?” I say, looking at her cute children.

  “Nothing. Maya and Haya are just being silly. They both love my necklace and want to wear it. I told them to share and take turns, Maya first and then Haya, but… Well, now it’s Maya’s turn again, and Haya doesn’t want to give it back. It’s just a childish fight, Omar. Don’t worry.”

  “I got this,” I reply. “Girls, who wants to see something special?” I ask, addressing the little girls.

  “What is it, Amo Omar?” both ask at the same time, their curiosity piqued.

  “First, promise to give the necklace back to Mommy. That is for older women, and you girls are small and need something else. Follow me.”

  Haya takes off the necklace and gives it to her mother, and all three follow me.

  Earlier, I asked Mrs. Shereen, our housekeeper, to make four necklaces out of small flowers picked from our garden. It turned out to be very wise, with perfect timing, for they will now make the perfect gifts for Sarah, Maya, Haya, and my niece. As soon as the girls see them, they quickly put them on and run happily into the garden to show them off.

  “My hero, now and forever,” Fatima says, smiling at me.

  I look around to make sure no one can see, then hold her hand up and kiss it.

  She looks around carefully, then does the same, twice, before scurrying off to follow her daughters. There is no one quite like Fatima.

  I grab a seat next to the billiards table and recall how it all began years ago…

  ***

  I had never felt such contradiction in myself when meeting someone as I did when I first saw and talked to Fatima. I had heard of her, as her name was mentioned several times. Years later, I discovered that I briefly encountered her once, when we were kids.

  It had been around four years since I met Ibrahim, my cousin, the son of my mother’s sister. He was about my age, and we went to the same secondary school. Ibrahim was a quiet guy who minded his own business, but we did share the same circle of friends. I could not say we were close, but we knew each other quite well. His grades carried him into the study of agricultural engineering. Right after graduation, he decided to leave our homeland, as he didn’t seem to be getting anywhere due to the difficult situations facing our country. After jumping from one job to another, he received a decent job offer with the Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) office in Amman. He revisited Baghdad several times a year on assignments, but we never really had time to catch up, and I only heard stories about him from my mother and aunt.

  Finally, he called me, and we agreed to meet at the Iraqi Hunting Social Club. The place hadn’t lost its touch over the years; the food was still good, and the service was the same. We both brought our wives along, but my cousin and his spouse arrived about a half-hour after Farah and I did. We were already seated and had ordered drinks by the time I saw them approaching our table. We stood to greet them, and I shook his hands. We kissed, as is customary between friends and close ones in our part of the world, and I spotted Fatima behind him. Ibrahim made the introduction, and I tried to say hello, but only half of the word came out. My heart suddenly quickened, and I could not control how I felt. That was the first trigger for me, where I believe it truly all began. It was only a fraction of a fraction of time, a brief second when I caught a glimpse of her eyes, but I was taken in so fast by her. In that very moment, I knew that if I gave in just a little, she would own me forever. I had no choice but to quickly look away.

  We sat down, each couple opposite each other. We talked about their relocation to Baghdad, and I tried to focus on Ibrahim, but my mind was already recalling those eyes of hers. There was something about Fatima’s eyes; it was as if they spoke to me, and I read their message loud and clear. I could already read her like an open book, and I felt something was missing in her. There was an emptiness there, one that mirrored what I felt in my own life, an eagerness unfulfilled. Somehow, I knew we both wanted more from life.

  Dinner went on, and about twenty minutes later, I mustered the courage to look at her again. I looked into her eyes for only a second, but she saw me, and we shared that moment. She was clearly in a place not meant for her, caught in a destiny she did not desire. To the whole world, she was a lady with stunning brown eyes so big, attractive, and close to perfection. To me, those eyes were magical and mesmerizing, carrying so many conflicting emotions behind them. I couldn’t tell if she was casting me casual looks or looks of interest, but I had to break eye contact again, as it seemed to be getting too serious too quickly. I did not want Ibrahim or Farah to see what I was feeling, and I certainly didn’t want to give anything away to Fatima herself. I didn’t even understand it myself, as I’d gone to dinner expecting a normal rendezvous with my cousin. Boy, was I wrong, because that meeting changed my life forever.

  Apart from the few looks we exchanged, the whole night was clouded for me. Most of the conversations were forgettable, and I only listened and interacted a few times. I did learn that they had been married for a few years. They meet in Jordan, after Ibrahim went to work there, and she had lived in Amman all her life. Fatima mentioned that she had tau
ght somewhere before, but I could not recall her field of expertise. Six years later, I can’t remember anything else about that dinner, not even what Fatima was wearing. I only remember those eyes.

  Later that night, I returned to our little home, the one I planned to soon move out of. I plopped down on the sofa and desperately tried to figure out what had transpired that evening. Just one look from her had left me drowning in a swarm of thoughts, with a thousand questions and tens of thousands of different answers. Even more so, I had a million reasons to forget it. I wasn’t clear on what I was feeling, but I knew I had to forget it. This can’t happen, I told myself. It mustn’t. It just…doesn’t add up.

  Farah sat near me and read a book for a little while, then went to bed, but I was far too restless to lie down with her. Questions still loomed: Is it normal attraction? Interest? Lust? Hmm… I had never felt like that before, and I knew those thoughts were catastrophically wrong. I was married, and so was she, to my cousin. We are family. End of story, I warned myself. Still, every time I closed my eyes, scenarios of being with Fatima crossed my mind. “No, no, no!” I repeated to myself what felt like a hundred times that night. At some point, I fell asleep on the sofa, only to be awakened by Sarah’s cries, a reminder of who I was and what I needed to avoid.